Holding Imperfection
by Unrelated Elephant
Summary: Somewhat of an exploratory piece rather than plotdriven. A couple shares a quiet, intimate moment in the wake of a night together. Postgame, ChrisxSalome, sequel to Darkness.


Holding Imperfection

The setting moon washed the room in a pale light, quilting the floor with bright slats crossed by shadows of the window's framing. Salome blinked himself slowly awake. It was a still night; no late summer wind or rain rattled the windows. His heartbeat would've risen to fill the quiet if not for the faint, regular whistle of breathing nearby. For a while, he lay still on his side, his eyes tracing the contours of a room made unfamiliar by night.

The warmth at his back shifted and drew away, taking with it the better part of the blankets. Chill crept across his skin from the night air, and Salome stiffly turned over to reclaim his half of the bedclothes.

A gentle tug only garnered a brief interruption of the whistling as his bedmate grunted, then rolled back into the sag in the middle of the bed. Salome sat up and pulled more forcefully at the counterpane.

Which, he discovered, was most firmly wrapped around his sleeping companion. After several fruitless attempts, a yank finally won him a scarce hand span more of covering. He lay back down beside the inveterate blanket-thief, who slumbered on, unaware of the battle that had just taken place.

The brightest moonlight barely reached the middle of the bed, and the sleeping figure beside him was on her side, turned away from him. The edge of the light touched her face, highlighting the line of her jaw and the curve of her ear. Her braid lay along the back of her neck up until it vanished under the covers.

Even in the darkness she was beautiful, he thought, reaching out to smooth her hair. It was almost strange that the moonlight didn't make it all glow, but only caressed a few streaks with pearly highlights, abandoning the rest to darker shadow.

Her bare shoulder above the blankets told a similar story of fancy against reality. It curved just so, smooth and pale until the edges of the vivid bruise that spread from her collarbone. He had one to match, but on his left; earlier that night they'd laughed in wonder at the strange symmetry of it.

"Even practice matches mark us," she'd remarked, tracing the edges of his lightly. "It's proof we're human, Mighty Knights or not."

He brushed her cheek, and then traced her shape through the covers. Here beside him, she was flesh and blood and wonderfully flawed and amazingly real. Reality and its imperfections made her more beautiful than the unreachable figure she'd once been.

He drew closer, until her back warmed his chest and his arm curved around her waist. She shifted slightly in his arms and sighed. Salome lay there, lulled to a half-doze by the stillness of the hour and the warmth of her body. Here was peace.

A clatter out in the corridor – a drunken soldier returning to bed, or a noisy guard on patrol – made him start somewhat guiltily. In a few hours, the sun would be rising, bringing another side of reality: responsibility, and a maid with Chris's wash-water. Chris could sometimes be stubbornly indifferent to her reputation, but he wasn't, and he didn't want to hear the sorts of things said about her that would invariably follow. The scandal would be tedious, and it was foolish to just give the council that sort of political leverage over them both.

And this moment was _not_ public property, to be sullied with gossip and speculation.

Just as he was considering whether to wake her, she turned in his arms, and a calloused hand touched his face. "You stayed."

It was a quiet statement of fact, but the expression on her face made him immeasurably glad he hadn't left her asleep, to wake alone without explanation. He tightened his embrace. "I'm afraid I can't for too long," he replied, just as softly. "When morning comes, I shouldn't be here."

Chris sighed and leaned into him. "I know. Not yet, please?"

"Not yet," he agreed, his hands tracing the line of her back. "Not yet."

"Mmm..." She shifted slightly, her head now resting on the pillow beside his. Her eyes were closed contentedly, an expression he was used to seeing when she sipped tea, or enjoyed the wind off the plains when she thought no one was looking. "Good. You're warm."

He murmured something between "good" and "you too" in reply, feeling his expression gentle as he looked at her. The moonlight picked out the shape of her face rather than the details, hinting at the turn of her chin, her nose, the fringe of her eyelash, her lips curving softly into a smile. They parted just slightly, invitingly, and he kissed her gently.

The kiss ended naturally, his lips brushing across her cheek as she snuggled closer, bending her head so that she tickled his neck with her nose. She sighed again. "Your hands are nice."

"Are they?" he asked, mildly amazed. She didn't seem to mind that he was stroking the curve of her hip, the small of her back. She hadn't minded before, either. "Chris…" he murmured. He'd meant to say, _you're lovely_, but the words seemed too small to contain what he felt. "Chris."

Her hand found its way to his face again, her fingertips brushing his upper lip, his chin. "You're getting scratchy. Need to shave." She nuzzled his face anyway.

The world of his quarters, cold wash-water, and gritty soap seemed impossibly distant from this small complete one. _Responsibility,_ a corner of his mind reminded him. He set it aside.

He leaned back, wanting to see her face and shoulders, and the hollow of her throat that was usually hidden by the high-collared styles she favored.

"Stay," Chris mumbled firmly, misunderstanding, and pulled him back closer for a kiss. When they broke it she stretched, her body warm and smooth against his, and then settled on her back, still in his arms. He curled around her, keeping her close. Chris. His Chris. He kissed her again.

"Safe," she murmured indistinctly. "Sleep. G'night."

She seemed perfectly content to fall asleep in his arms again. What a marvel. He'd broken bones and shattered skulls with the very hands he held her with; she'd seen him do it. And yet she felt _safe_.

The moonlight slid towards the foot of the bed, hiding the face he couldn't see from how he was laying. Chris's breathing grew too faint to hear. Despite the stillness, he didn't find himself drifting off; if anything, he seemed to be growing more awake.

"I feel a little selfish."

He'd thought she was asleep again, but her words surprised him, too. "Selfish? How's that?"

"Well…" She turned again, her back against him. It muffled her voice a little. "I asked you to stay longer. Knowing that you'll have to leave at some point."

"I want to stay." He'd thought she'd understood that.

She laughed a little, to his relief. "I suppose I know that. I'm glad. But because I asked you to, because I asked you here in the first place…that means you're the one who has to remember to be careful not to fall asleep. The one who has to leave."

The night's stillness made her voice a thin, almost forlorn sound. He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly, and he felt her relax.

"Anyway… that's what I meant by selfish," she concluded in a stronger voice.

"Perhaps a little." He settled his right arm about her more securely, pulling himself closer so his lips brushed her ear. "Forgive me for being a bit selfish myself, but I don't think I'll be leaving you to your solitary sleep quite yet," he breathed.

"Oh?"

He ran his fingertips lightly along her side in answer. She twitched, and then stiffened. "What are you doing? I'm not ticklish."

It wasn't quite the reaction he'd been after, but delightful nonetheless. "Are you sure?" he asked, walking his fingers over her hip to the back of her leg. He could feel her muscles tense as she fought the sensation. "I think you might be wrong."

"I am not," she insisted through gritted teeth. Her hands batted at his, but lightly.

When his hand reached her stomach, she doubled up, little bubbles of laughter escaping in gasps. She tried to turn over to escape; he tightened his hold and tickled the back of her neck. Finally, after some squirming and flailing, she turned around and buffeted him with her pillow.

He let her go with a chuckle and rolled over onto his back. Chris followed suit, her pillow on her stomach. He searched for her hand; she found his and they clasped, palms together and fingers intertwined.

"You know… I'm glad."

The moonlight had drifted down the bed now, and she was next to him where he couldn't see her face, but he didn't need to see to know her expression. It was all there in her voice – happiness, defiant pride and just a tinge of awe. "Glad about what?"

She lifted both their hands to gesture in the dark. "Of this, of us. That we took some time for ourselves, that we had something we both wanted and reached for it. Because it can't be undone, and so whatever happens, we'll always have had this tonight together."

He tightened his grip on her hand. Her rune was cool and smooth under his fingers, and he wondered if she could feel his, the stylized shield a similar contrast to his weathered skin. "I'm glad, too."

"It's kind of a relief, isn't it? Knowing it can't be taken away, even when we're old and grey, or if … if the Tinto delegate poisons us both at dinner next week. Although," she went on, her voice much more ordinary, "Tinto food being what it is, I'm not sure we'll be able to tell until it's too late. That time I went to visit Lilly…"

Politics was a realm he did not feel like visiting at the moment, but the mention of the upcoming mediation woke worries and plans in a careful, deliberating place in his mind. They clamored for attention over Chris's wandering reminiscence. Salome grimaced. Percival had been right, even if he'd said it as a joke – the strategist had the most beautiful woman in Zexen in bed with him, and still he thought about politics.

The beautiful woman sat up and dropped his hand, muttering as she fussed with something behind her head. He made a noise of inquiry, laying his hand on her back.

"It's caught in my hair again. Blasted chain. I think I've got… there." She pulled something around her neck to the front. It glinted briefly as she let it drop to her chest. She lay back down again, pulling her braid out from under her as she did.

He took her hand again, and turning on his side, reached across to trace the chain. His fingers brushed her breast and the space between before his hand closed around the two objects that had snarled in her hair.

"The ring's too heavy, so the chain always gets wrapped around my braid," she complained conversationally, bringing her other hand up to hold his. "I wish my great-grandfather'd had smaller hands, so I could at least wear it properly on occasion."

Salome chuckled. "Ancestors don't give much thought to their descendants when they have signet rings made. I can't wear the Harras one anymore; it's too tight." He brushed his thumb across the Lightfellow seal, and then the smooth surface of the runepiece that hung from the same chain.

In a way, that small charm was as much a part of her armor as the plate mail she usually wore, protection against what might happen if she was taken captive. It had kept her safe last night, too, from that one consequence she alone could bear from their night together. He was thankful for that. She would never endanger her way of life like that, not in the middle of a war, and he wouldn't put her at that risk, either.

He let his hand slide from the runepiece that had granted them this dear freedom. Chris yawned. "I wonder if anyone notices that I never wear it," she mused in a sleepy voice. It seemed her mind was still on the ring. "But do they remember I'm the head of the Lightfellow family, anyway? I think most people see Lady Chris of the thousand silly nicknames…with one fewer that actually applies, now," she added smugly.

The tone of her voice painted her face in his mind, and as she talked he let his eyes trace the outline of her body. There was the curve of her breasts, hiding the signet ring, and on her hip a dark spot from the chafing of a rough seam in her under-armor shift. He drew his gaze along the shadows where her legs crossed, down to her feet, where her toes caught the edge of the moonlight.

For a while, despite the fading light, he was aware just how completely the woman lying beside him was Chris Lightfellow.

"The moon's gone down, hasn't it," Chris said suddenly. "So you'll be leaving soon…" She sighed, a long, tired sound in the darkness. She flexed her hand, shaking it free from his. Salome caught her hand. He folded his hand about hers, pressing his own marked palm against the concentric circles of her rune.

"I'll stay as long as I can," he promised. "I want to."

"I know." Chris moved closer, bringing her head to rest on his chest. "I know you will." Salome stroked her hair with his free hand, breathing lightly so she could hear his heartbeat. The rise and fall of her shoulder matched that of his chest; he realized with a strange clarity that they were breathing in unison. Time faded away before the peaceful rhythm, unstrained and regular.

A yawn that he was surprised to realize was his broke the pattern, and the present returned wearily. His arm, half-pinned under Chris, was starting to go numb, and while it was still dark, soon the faint light of dawn would tint the room. "Chris? I need to go."

Chris made a sleepy noise of disgust. "Bah. I know. Don't want you to…" But she started to sit up.

A sudden, vivid image of Chris lying alone made his heart constrict. He pulled her back down for a kiss before she could finish. Loose strands of her hair caught between their lips. "I love you. Don't forget."

Her head hovered above his, tilted in that characteristic physical question mark. "Forget?"

"That I love you." He smiled, hoping she could see it even in the dim light. "In case we're poisoned by Tinto."

She laughed and kissed him again, then finally sat up.

The bed creaked as he swung his legs over the side and reluctantly stood. Out from the blankets and away from Chris's side, it was chilly, but he stood there for a moment anyway, looking at her, after lighting the gas lamp on the bedside table. She blinked up at him, coverlet clutched half-heartedly to her chest more for something to hold than for modesty.

He dressed quickly in last evening's discarded clothes. Drowsiness and an inside-out sleeve gave him a little trouble, and he had to hunt around for his stockings. He finally found the second one lying absurdly across Chris's sword on its bedside stand. Behind him, the bed creaked again.

Buckling his belt, he turned to see Chris pulling on a nightgown. "I don't want the maid to see me naked," she mumbled, meeting his eyes with self-conscious defiance.

He laughed and took her in his arms to kiss her. "Neither do I."

She followed him to the door half-leaning on him, her arm linked with his. There he paused.

Did she know how dear she looked there, nightdress askew, loose hair framing her face, and eyes half-closed? Zexen's captain was normally a neat, smart figure in steel and leather, but after midnight she became real. His arms folded themselves around her comfortable shape, and she leaned into the embrace with a sigh.

"Nngg…" she mumbled sleepily into his shoulder. "Don't want you to go."

He kissed the top of her head. "Me either. But I have to." Even standing here, in her nightdress, she was so easy to hold, so hard to leave.

"I know. It's just how things are…" Her lips brushed his neck. "Love you."

"Love…" he responded in a whisper. He could feel her breath across his ear. He was on the verge of walking them both back to the bed, the chambermaid's sensibilities be damned, when a metallic clatter out in the corridor brought his heart into his ears and stiffened his limbs. The corner of his mind he thought he'd banished prodded him coldly.

"Chris…I need to go," he reminded them both, and regretfully pulled away. She stole a clumsy kiss before he was out of reach.

He reached for the door, but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be seen that way." Soon she was fumbling through desk drawers, light from a newly lit candle flickering off her face. "I had the locks put on a few years ago. Between Nash and the incident with the Grasslanders, I didn't think it was a good idea to leave things open at the far end. I haven't been down there since, but I think it should be clear of… ahah." She held up an iron key, and then presented it to Salome. "It's a secret to everybody, besides myself and the locksmith. And you. And Nash."

She grimaced at the last, which brought a smile to Salome's face. He'd never once thought she'd be taken in by the Harmonian's flirtations, but even so, it was nice to know she hadn't appreciated them. He studied the key, keeping that thought to himself. "I'll return it to you tomorrow, then? On the other hand…" he rubbed his chin thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow at her. "One never knows when such a thing might be useful."

Chris grinned a little sheepishly and held up a second, identical key. "I had an extra made. In case I lost the first," she added indignantly at his laugh.

There were more sounds out in the hallway, the night watch returning from their shift. Chris pressed some subtle switch on the bookcase and it swung open, revealing a dark and cobwebbed passage. Her head briefly disappeared around the corner, returning with a sneeze. "Phew. Pretty dusty. But it looks clear."

She stepped aside, and, candle in his right hand, he slipped into the dark corridor.

Somehow she'd taken his hand, or he hers; he lingered just outside her room for a moment, arm's length from her, unwilling to break this last link.

"Goodnight," she said, around a yawn.

"Goodnight." He took a step, and their fingers slid apart. "Sleep well."

It felt strange to be walking down the dusty passage alone, the world growing wider about him and the candlelight flickered off the walls. His world, the world of Salome Harras, was one of politics and paperwork and logistical considerations, of stone walls that now seemed to radiate chill, and of war, with its own bouts of physicality as engulfing as the world he'd just left.

She was part of all of those things, too, though. He straightened his back and walked more briskly. She'd be there at the conference with Tinto as they tried to hammer out some sort of truce. She'd be at the mess hall for breakfast, grumbling a bit about overstewed tea to hide her drowsiness. She was the woman who sweated in the practice yards and stayed up late scowling at paperwork, who cursed the council for a pack of fools, who clothed herself in steel and rode off to war. The hand he'd just held was as calloused and stained as his own.

He hurried down the passageway in the grey hour before dawn.

* * *

Acknowledgments: Many, many thanks to Owen, Leif Marakov, Justin the Beta-moogle, K'arthur, Darine Dreamchaser, and Catherine Rain for their feedback and moral support over the course of the month it took to write this 'fic. Naturally, Suikoden, its characters, and all related whatnot are copyright Konami. Any formatting errors in this are due to QuickEdit misrepresenting it in the preview; I checked formatting in both the original document and the preview twice before posting this. 


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